Her Chemical Defect
by gwendy
Summary: A Scandal in Belgravia from Irene Adler's perspective, how she came to learn of Sherlock Holmes and how her subsequent encounters with him led to her downfall. Some speculation, some AU but will do my best to stay true to canon. Note: Unbeta'd. Sherlock x Irene
1. Intrigued

**Chapter 1: Intrigued**

The first time Irene Adler learned about Sherlock Holmes was through rather mundane circumstances. She'd finished with her last client hours ago and now, she was bored. So bored in fact, that she pulled out her rarely opened laptop and decided to surf the internet with no particular agenda in mind.

Irene let out a sigh. Normally she preferred surfing the web on her camera phone, or curling up on her favourite chair and reading a book. But she'd read everything in her shelf and hadn't had time to buy a new one.

Quickly, her eyes skimmed through the titles. While she had True Crime books here and there, others were related to her work: BDSM, Sex Toys, Roleplay, Doms & Subs, Masters & Slaves...just the usual stuff, and at this point in her life, she didn't even need them anymore. In fact, she hadn't needed them at all. She had a natural talent for knowing what people liked—their fetishes, their kinks—just by observing them, touching the right places, hitting the right places. She could pick people apart, men and women alike (especially men) and make them spill their darkest secrets with just a few sensuous words from her lips and the occasional crack of a riding crop.

Irene lay on her stomach and opened her web browser. Secrets. More than her work as a dominatrix, secrets were the key to the life she led now: a far cry from the penniless aspiring actress she once was—shuffling from one failed audition to the next, only to end up starring in some shady films which exposed her to the world of BDSM.

Secrets. There were a lot of them to go around and they became more valuable as her clientele grew and evolved to include the upper class.

She never extorted; not directly for money at least, but the intimate knowledge she held of certain clients have certainly helped her move up the ladder. She had a growing list of people—powerful people—at the palm of her hand whom she knew would stand by her rather than leave her to tear their lives apart.

It gave her a high, this power she had over people, and she realized why her past dommes had never wanted to play the submissive role again. It was to her a drug, and while she had entered the sex trade for much needed money, she couldn't deny that money had since become secondary to chasing this high.

But every high was followed with a crash, and Irene was experiencing it acutely. She couldn't understand why she was so bored. No, not bored. She was down. Down, when she had no reason to be. She was at the top of her game—clients pouring in, an increasing investment account, protection guaranteed...

" _I guess it really is lonely at the top_ ," she thought, then immediately dismissed it, inwardly cursing herself for falling into such cliché. She was being silly. She liked the solitude. The independence. She liked being alone.

Yeah, she thought, scrolling through the news, her eyes not looking at any article in particular. She liked being alone...

She stopped scrolling. There was an update on serial murder case she'd been following.

" _Finally! Something interesting._ "

She clicked on the article and began to read. If she wasn't flogging clients or pouring them with candle wax, reading detective stories was a favourite pastime of hers. Unfortunately, news articles can only take you so far in terms of the actual work done behind the scenes. There were blogs, true, but they were rarely written by the people who carried out such investigations. Oh, she could probably wait for a true crime author to publish a book on the cases, but that will certainly take ages. She did have connections with the police (she knew what the chief of police liked) but it wasn't the same as speaking with the people who actually do the leg work.

As Irene delved further into the article, she became more intrigued and increasingly frustrated. The last victim, Jennifer Wilson had been clever enough to plant her mobile phone on the killer and scratch her email password on the floor so investigators could track the phone via GPS, but Irene needed more details. If this woman solved her own murder, then it would feel a bit anti climactic, and Irene felt a pang of disappointment towards Scotland Yard. To think they had been doing quite well as of late.

No, there had to be more. She opened another tab and searched for Jennifer Wilson's name, filtering the search results to show the latest published articles.

One press of a key yielded numerous results, but one entry stood out among the rest.

 _"A Study In Pink"_

She moved a delicate, manicured finger over the tracking pad and clicked the link to Dr. John Watson's blog.

By the time Irene finished reading Dr. Watson's blog entry, she was giddy with excitement and curiosity. Whoever this Sherlock Holmes was, he was quite possibly one of the smartest people she had ever read about, if not the most obnoxious if Dr. Watson was to be believed.

"Consulting detective..." Irene read to herself out loud and smiled. Her interest piqued, she opened another tab, typed in Sherlock Holmes' name and found herself directed to his website with the header _The Science of Deduction_.

Irene spent the next hour reading through the website. There were interesting articles in regards to deductive reasoning and keen observation, but all of that was eclipsed by a writing style that was too technical for her taste. Then there were those pages dedicated to things she'd rather not waste time on. Like two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash.

 _"The brain of a scientist, yet he chose to be a detective,"_ Irene thought, and began her search anew for more about Sherlock Holmes. Apart from his website, there was little to no information about him: no social media accounts, no photographs, nothing.

It was frustrating.

It was intriguing.

With one more swipe of the tracking pad, Irene subscribed to Dr. Watson's blog. She'll probably learn more about this Sherlock Holmes in the coming weeks. After all, there was always a crime to solve in England.

 _"Which reminds me"_ , she thought with a smile as she reached for her camera phone. _"I think it's time I misbehaved..."_


	2. Entangled

_**Author's Notes:** SHORT CHAPTER._

 _This is basically a summary of how Irene came into contact with Jim Moriarty. I initially wrote it as an actual story but I scrapped it because it was going to be so long, it was almost a fic of it's own, and writing it that way would overshadow what I wanted this fic to be, which is a retelling of ASiB. I still hope you enjoy this chapter though. It's based mostly on speculation and conjecture, and a bit of character study._

 _Next chapter will be up in a few days. I already finished writing it, will just need to tweak it some more._

* * *

Two years had passed since Irene Adler began to ' _misbehave_ '. And by that, she had gotten into contact with a man whose name was only mentioned in whispers: Jim Moriarty.

She'd first heard of him from some of her more shady clients, who described him to be a man so brilliant, he was able to help them cover up their crimes and leave investigators completely in the dark.

She had her initial reservations about contacting him, of course. Moriarty represented everything that the heroes in her beloved detective stories did not. But if rumours were to be believed, he was also the only person whom she can turn to for advice on how to properly use the information—the power—she had in her hands.

At first, messages between her and the consulting criminal were passed through channels. But with the growing list of intelligence she gave him (particularly those political in nature), he had resorted to phoning her directly—an honour, according to others who had acquired Moriarty's services. He was never known to reach out to a client, and Irene was privileged to be one of very few who had his contact number.

That was how Irene Adler came to be part of Moriarty's criminal network, though her communication with him remained strictly over the phone.

"Moriarty only shows himself for two reasons," one of her fellow associates had said. "One: if he trusts you implicitly, or two: if he's going to kill you."

Clearly, Moriarty was a dangerous man, but oh, was he ever brilliant. If not for him, Irene thought she would never have been able to manipulate and exploit as well as she did. He was to almost like a mentor to her, and even paid her handsomely for valuable information she was able to provide. She was paid even more if she used her prowess as a dominatrix and seductress to wreak havoc in the country's political landscape.

The political scandals had been Irene's crowning glory. She loved seeing those bigwigs in parliament squirm, fumbling with interviews and scrambling to save the remaining scraps of their reputation, all because they were too weak against her wiles.

She was kept off the press of course. She had far too much salacious knowledge—far too much power—on the people she ensnared that they wouldn't dare touch her.

Yes, no one could touch her. She was invincible.

But not against Jim Moriarty.

She couldn't pinpoint when exactly it was that her view of his brilliant mind changed. Perhaps it was when he started calling her his good girl. Or his little bitch. Or his little pet.

Or the time he had her seducing and sleeping with one man after the next to gain information for the other crimes he was consulted in.

Regardless of when it started, she was where she was now—an extremely wealthy common whore Jim Moriarty used for his 'business transactions'.

Irene hated sleeping with those men. Past experiences of a traumatic nature (mostly during her time as an 'actress') had made her prefer women over the opposite sex so being sent out on these ' _assignments_ ' as Jim so fondly called them left her shaken. She wanted to protest, but when five of her clients (associates of Moriarty) vanished after displeasing him in some way, she realized she was out of her depth. Moriarty was—and never should have been—a man she got entangled with.

From that day forth, she began to plan. She increased her wealth tenfold, depositing them in several off shore accounts and worked her way up to more powerful people she could use in the future. She needed to find a way to escape Moriarty's clutches and from what she had seen of his criminal network, the only agency that could grant her the protection she needed was the one she had tormented the past year.

The British government.


	3. Thwarted

**Note: This chapter contains some BDSM references.**

* * *

"Have you been a good little boy, Timmy?"

"Yes, I have."

"Yes I have what?"

"Yes, I have Mummy."

Irene Adler flashed a sweet smile, and with a caress of a finger, made the naked, overweight man look up at her from his kneeling position. He'd looked intimidating earlier, marching in to her Belgravia flat in that pristine coat and tie, but one command from her had reduced this Ministry of Defence member to a snivelling little boy.

She knew what he liked.

She licked her lips. She had to remember to thank one of the royal guardsmen for recommending her to this M.O.D. man. Moriarty had been dogging her to get to someone from the Ministry of Defence, and finally, after weeks of going through people, she got what she needed.

It wasn't as though she still enjoyed working for Moriarty. But he'd threatened to cut off her toes and turn them into earrings. Aside from the money he was paying her, living had become an incentive.

She turned her thoughts back to Mr. M.O.D.. "Well Timmy, can you show Mummy what good thing you've done lately?"

"But Mummy, my hands are tied."

She slapped him hard. "How dare you talk back to your mother like that, you filthy little brat!"

"Mummy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mr. M.O.D. cried out, holding up his bound wrists in front of him. "Timmy's a good boy, Mummy! I'll show you. It's in my mobile."

 _"Ah, now we're getting somewhere_ ", Irene thought, but didn't make a move to get Mr. M.O.D.'s mobile from her dresser. "Okay then, show Mummy. Go get your mobile like a good boy."

The man started to stand when Irene grabbed the riding crop and gave him a smack.

"Crawl," she hissed. "Crawl like the big fat baby you are."

Mr. M.O.D. did as commanded, and Irene took great pleasure in watching the man in such a wretched state.

This was how it should be, she thought. Her, a woman, with the upper hand; not the other way around like what happened all those years ago—in those drab, dingy rooms, surrounded by cameras and a crew of salivating men.

"Here Mummy," Mr. M.O.D. got the mobile and crawled back to her. "Timmy did good this time because he will save the world."

Irene held her breath. "Save the world?"

"With these magic letters," Mr. M.O.D. fumbled with his mobile and showed Irene an e-mail.

It was a code.

 _Gotcha._

* * *

Irene scrolled through her phone until she found the photo she had discreetly taken of the M.O.D. man's e-mail. It had been a few days since then, but she was yet to pass on the information to Moriarty. She had suspected this e-mail to be far more valuable than it seemed. She had even tried to have it deciphered by one of the best cryptographers in the country, but to no avail.

There was some good news though. More than just the coded e-mail, the M.O.D. man had let slip that one of the British Royal Family wasn't as prim and proper as her relatives (the BDSM community wasn't exactly large, so word spread fast). She'd told him to put in a good word for her, and now, she had her most illustrious client to date tied up in the next room.

Irene checked herself in the mirror, making sure every strand was in place, every curve of her body hugged by her black see through lace dress.

She moved a tongue across her blood red lips. The thought of having one of the bluebloods at her mercy brought a thrill through her such that she hadn't felt in a long while. She'd been powerless under Moriarty for far too long, and it made her all the more eager to start this particular session.

That, and the fact that she could smell an opportunity to further her own agenda.

One way or another, she will have the British Royal Family grovelling at her feet.

And granting her the protection she needed.

Irene checked the clock. 11:50PM. There was still ten minutes to go before their scheduled session; plenty time to see if Dr. Watson had any new stories to tell. Besides, her royal sub could use a bit of neglect. That way, the girl would end up begging for her attention.

Irene scrolled through the Dr. Watson's blog and to her disappointment, found that it hadn't been updated in weeks; which was strange since there was a string of kidnappings and bombings all over the news. Big serial case like that should've gotten the attention of Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe he and Dr. Watson were already on the case, she thought.

Out of habit, she opened a new tab and typed in Sherlock Holmes' official website. She wasn't sure why she bothered. He rarely updated the website and had not posted a single photo of himself. Despite this, Irene continued to hold on to the hope that one day, he would. That way, she can finally picture a face behind Dr. Watson's blog entries.

After clicking through the pages, she found herself in the message boards. They were usually empty, but this time, she was surprised to find posts from none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

 _FOUND: Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).  
Botulinum Toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St._

 _Congratulations to Ian Monkford on the escape to Colombia._

 _Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox._

 _Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.  
The Pool. Midnight._

Irene sat back in her chair, her brow knitted. She was familiar with the second and third posts because they were highly reported by the media. The first post though seemed to refer to an old case and the last post...

She checked the time stamp. The last post was less than two hours old.

Irene looked at the entire message board again. Something was nagging at the back of her head. Names, names...Monkford...de Santos...she'd heard those before. Not from the news, no. From others...from...associates.

From others who worked for Moriarty.

It was at that moment when she remembered what one of her associates had told her:

 _"Moriarty only shows himself for two reasons. One: if he trusts you implicitly, or two: if he's going to kill you."_

Grabbing her camera phone and riding crop, Irene stood up and strode to the hallway. The connections she came up between the bombings, kidnappings and cases were tenuous at best, but it all pointed to Moriarty. She'd be surprised if all these dramatic flair were not his brainchild.

 _Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.  
The Pool. Midnight._

Irene leaned over the railing and stared at her phone for a good while before dialling the number. She listened as it rang. And rang. And rang. It seemed to go on forever.

Then, a soft voice.

"Hello?"

That gave Irene a pause. The voice on the other end sounded too soft. Too calm. "Jim? Is that you?"

"Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" Jim Moriarty sounded annoyed. Irene thought she heard echoes of...water?

 _The Pool._

"The M.O.D. man." Irene managed to keep her voice steady, if not chipper. "I managed to get from him an e-mail with some sort of code."

"SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Irene visibly recoiled. This wasn't the first time Moriarty yelled at her over the phone, but she could never grow used to it.

"Say that again," Moriarty continued, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will sssskinnn you..."

Irene swallowed the lump in her throat. Get away, get away. She had to find a way to get away from this man.

"It's true," she insisted. "I can even send you the file now."

"Wait."

Irene waited on the line, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She began to wonder if she'd made a mistake in calling him.

She continued to listen in and was able to make out a strange exchange of words.

"Sorry." Moriarty. "Wrong day to die."

"Oh." Unfamiliar voice. Baritone. "Did you get a better offer?"

A pause. Then, Moriarty. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."

Sherlock! So she was right. All those posts in the message boards were for Moriarty!

Irene strained to listen but the next voice to come back on was not what she wanted to hear. "So, if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich." Moriarty. "If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

A snap, then the sounds of water fading away followed by the loudening echoes of footsteps.

"Now, about that e-mail..." Moriarty drawled. It was unnerving how he could switch his tone from angry, to threatening, and now, bored.

"It's an alphanumeric code. The M.O.D. man said it will save the world. I tried to have it deciphered," she admitted, "but my cryptographer friend couldn't crack it. Shall I send it to you?"

"Sure," Moriarty still sounded bored, but there was an edge in his voice that Irene would rather she didn't hear. "Your job's not done yet, just so we're clear. What you're giving me is only partial information so unless you have it deciphered, don't expect to get paid."

"Fair enough," Irene agreed though she really didn't.

"Oh by the way, how's the princess?"

Irene felt as though she had been thrown into the Thames in the middle of winter.

Moriarty cackled. "Come now, pet. Do you really think gossip as delicious as that gets away from me? You're being one naughty girl right now, you should be spanked."

Irene couldn't find a retort. Helpless. Helpless. That was what she was when it came to him.

"Don't worry, Daddy's not mad," Moriarty continued. "In fact, I can give you some free advice on how to play this one out."

"Free advice?" Irene repeated. The consulting criminal giving free advice? Hardly believable. "Why?"

"I'm feeling a bit generous." Moriarty sounded like an excited school girl about to go to her favourite band's concert. "Obviously, you're going to be taking pictures of our little royal, but blackmail ugh, so passé. Be more imaginative than that. Let's make this into a little game."

"A game? How?"

A pause. She could almost feel Jim Moriarty breaking out into a cruel smile. "Let's leave that for another time. I think her highness is desperate for your attention. I'll be in touch. Bye!"

Irene lowered the phone from her ear. Her body went limp for a moment and she felt as though she barely had strength enough to press the END CALL button. But when it occurred to her that she had called just in time, that she may very well have saved the life of Sherlock Holmes, she felt a sudden surge of vigour.

And relief.

"Well now." She sashayed towards the room, where her client was bound, cracking the riding crop against the wall. "Have you been wicked, your highness?"

"Yes, Ms. Adler," came the breathless reply, and Irene slammed the door shut. Moriarty may still have a hold of her and possibly everything she did, but if there's one thing she knew he couldn't do, it was that he could never read her mind.

She'll play along , she thought. She'll play along with his little game. For now.


	4. Informed

Irene Adler released a deep breath and rose from the bed, leaving an unconscious Kate—her new sub, protégée and occasional driver—unconscious and covered in welts. The drugs, as always, worked on the poor girl and she had asked for a lot more punishment from her domme, which Irene was only too happy to oblige. She had been on the edge the past week and needed an outlet. A willing sub was godsend.

Taking her riding crop from the floor and straightening her see-through nightie, Irene walked back into her room and sat down heavily in front of her dresser. Physically, she was tired but her brain was still drummed up with adrenaline. Perhaps a bit of good reading would put her to sleep, she thought, as she opened her laptop to browse for updates from Dr. Watson's blog. There were a lot more subscribers now, and she prided herself that she was one of the first. She hadn't stopped being a fan of Sherlock Holmes's exploits, and as she read through his latest adventure, she felt a sense of calm. Reading about him seemed to be the only thing constant in her rapidly changing, more dangerous world.

Despite herself, she began to relive how she had felt when she inadvertently saved Sherlock Holmes' life with one lucky phone call.

She wasn't the sentimental type. Far from it. Time and experience had taught her long ago to guard her heart behind steel gates. But these days, there were precious few moments when she could indulge a secret part of herself—a time when she could delve a little into her own fantasies instead of enacting upon that of others.

Yes, she had to admit she fantasized about meeting the great detective, but not at all in a sexual manner. She had lost all tendencies to be attracted to men, so sex was definitely off the table. What she did envision however was a mentor figure. Perhaps a grumpy old man, dignified in appearance, haughty in manner. In another time and place, she could've been running alongside him, tailing some dangerous criminal or another. She could've been his protégée, maybe his partner like Dr. Watson. She could've been the recipient of his derisive comments and condescending manner.

The ringing of her phone pulled her from her reverie. She picked it up, her heart racing when she saw Jim Moriarty's number flashing on the screen.

She took the call. "Good evening, Jim."

"Spare me the pleasantries, Ms. Adler," came Moriarty's bored, icy tone. "I need to know your progress on the code."

Irene felt a surge of panic. She'd gone through her contacts, her clients, anything and anyone who could point her to people who could help decipher the M.O.D. man's coded e-mail but everything lead to a dead end. No one, not even the best cryptographers in the country, could crack it.

For some reason, her eyes darted towards her laptop, and she found herself staring at the one name that had been in her thoughts earlier.

"Ms. Adler, I'm still waiting on an answ—"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"What?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Irene repeated. "He's a consulting detecti—"

"I know who he is, Ms. Adler," Moriarty cut in. "He's been bad for business. But what I'm wondering is, how do you know about him?"

"A client told me." As always, Irene managed to disguise her lie with the right tone of voice. Besides, it wasn't exactly untrue. "I know one of the police men. Or rather, what he likes."

"Huh." Another moment of silence. Moriarty seemed to be contemplating. "So...let me see if I understand this correctly. You're saying you will just go up to Sherlock Holmes and ask him to help you decipher the code?"

"Yes."

At her answer, Irene heard perhaps one of the strangest sounds she had ever heard in her life: Jim Moriarty's peals of laughter.

"It's worth a try, isn't it?" Irene had to keep the edge off her voice. "They say he can solve anything. And you know that I am well-versed in the art of manipulation and seduction."

"Oh, my dear, you are killing me right now." Moriarty continued to laugh. "You really have no idea what Sherlock Holmes is like, do you?"

"You know what I do, Jim." Irene's fingers tightened around her phone. "I can break him down."

"You're welcome to try, my dear, though I doubt he's going to be an easy conquest for you." Moriarty still maintained a condescending tone. This gave Irene a pause. Moriarty had always been confident about her skill set. Just what kind of a man was Sherlock Holmes beyond what she had read online?

Irene heard an e-mail notification from her laptop.

"That's from me," Moriarty said from the other end of the line. "That's what we have on Sherlock Holmes so far...plus one other person I need you to know about."

With one hand still pressing the phone to her ear, she opened the e-mail with her free hand and glanced at the title of the attachment.

"The Ice Man and the Virgin?" Irene read with a twinge of incredulity in her voice. "What is this? An erotic novel?"

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Moriarty chuckled. "Those, my dear, are nicknames I gave to the two other players in this particular game of ours. It's you, me, against the Holmes boys."

"The Holmes boys?"

"Yessss." Moriarty emphasized with a hiss. "And once you've read it, give me a call and let me know if you can still take on Sherlock Holmes."

He ended the call.

* * *

Irene read through the file not once, but several times over, particularly the one on Sherlock Holmes. Unlike the file on the "Ice Man" Mycroft Holmes, the younger Holmes' file did not contain any photos of the detective. It did however have basic physical descriptions like his estimated age, height, weight, hair colour, hair type, and eye colour.

Irene was surprised to find him so young—barely five years her senior if estimates were correct. All her imaginings of a grumpy old man faded and in its place, she now pictured a man not unlike his brother in terms of appearance, but with the corresponding physical attributes stated in his file.

Irene's lip curled. Not exactly an attractive picture, but then again why should she care?

And why was she disappointed?

She shook off her musings and once again, read through Sherlock Holmes' personality data:- _Younger brother of Mycroft Holmes (see Ice Man file)_

\- _Works as a consulting detective to Scotland Yard. Contact is DI Greg Lestrade (see Lestrade file)_

\- _Works closely with Dr. John Watson in solving cases (see Watson file)_

\- _Resides in 221 B Baker St with Dr. John Watson_

 _"I suppose he's gay,"_ Irene thought with a sigh, a strange feeling in her chest. "Guess we're the same in that aspect."

She carried on reading.

 _Highly skilled in deduction_

 _Athletic_

 _Skilled in hand to hand combat_

 _Has neurotic tendencies_

 _Has keen attention to detail_

 _Has impeccable memory_

 _Has dogged determination especially with cases that interest him_

 _Socially awkward_

 _Once went to rehab for cocaine, morphine, and opium addiction_

 _Virgin_

That last part was the one that didn't seem to add up. How could a man in his late thirties remain chaste all these years? Isn't he supposed to be in a homosexual relationship? Unless he and Dr. Watson are not in a relationship? Maybe the doctor wasn't his type? Or maybe there's the chance that he could be asexual?

Exactly what kind of a man was Sherlock Holmes?

Irene slumped back in her chair. Instead of being enlightened by this new information, she found herself completely baffled. But more than that, she became increasingly intrigued.

She reached for her phone again and dialed Moriarty's number.

He answered after two rings. "Well that took you a while. I was starting to wonder if you changed your mind about taking on the Holmes brothers."

"I haven't," Irene said with more intensity than she had intended. "When do I start?"

She couldn't see him, but she knew Jim Moriarty's lips were curling into a smile.


	5. Photographed

Bright morning sunlight filtered through the windows and white curtains of Irene's Belgravia flat. She was still in her black, flimsy lingerie, lounging around on Kate's bed as she admired her sleeping sub's naked, welted and bruised form.

She ran her riding crop down the length of Kate's body, careful so as not to wake her. Irene had always been fascinated by the female form—all softness, slopes and curves. A woman's body was a thing of beauty, specifically shaped to elicit attraction, and not for the first time, she wondered what it was that other women found so appealing with masculine muscles, abs, and God forbid, body hair.

She'd never been attracted to these so called "manly men", and past experiences had further solidified her preference for women. Admittedly, there were a few men who caught her eye once or twice, but all of them had been effeminate in one way or another—perhaps a softer curve of a lip, thick, long lashes, delicate fingers, captivating eyes...

A buzzing noise made her sit up with a start. Her phone was vibrating on the bedside table, and she experienced a moment of panic until she saw the number of her last male lover flash on the screen.

She picked up the phone and promptly pressed the END CALL button.

"Uhm...Irene? Who was that?"

Irene turned to see Kate, slowly stirring awake. As always, the girl was still groggy from the drugs she loved taking along with a beating session, her head half buried in the pillows.

"Just my little novelist friend," Irene answered with a grin. "He's been trying to convince me that he'll be divorcing his wife for me. I don't think he knows yet that she has promised me the same thing."

"Mmhmm..." Kate nodded, eyes half-lidded, mascara running. "Maybe you should send them those photos you took of your time with them?"

"I intend to do that." Irene sat up and stretched. It had been Jim Moriarty's idea for her to have a very public affair with one of the UK's most prominent novelists, as well as his wife. To gain notoriety, he had said, so when the time comes, Buckingham Palace will have to pay attention and pay her whatever ridiculous sum she requested in exchange for her silence (he was obviously still very much in the dark as to her ulterior motives). "For now, I need to rest a bit. It has been a rather exhausting morning."

"Yes, it has," Kate threw Irene a slow, languorous smile, showing the row of pearly whites which drew her to the girl in the first place.

Irene didn't know if she had somehow given Kate a look, a smile, or perhaps her posture had softened somewhat, because the next thing she knew, the girl was drawing up to nuzzle her.

Irene stood up from the bed quickly as though she had been burned. "Did I give you permission to touch me?"

"Irene, I'm sorry. I—"

"I told you before. I'm not into that," Irene said through gritted teeth. "And neither should you. Sentiment is for the weak. You'll never succeed in this line of work if you let emotion rule over your head."

"I wasn't...I didn't mean..."

A slap from the riding crop silenced Kate, a new angry welt appearing on her pale cheek.

"Don't even lie to me," Irene hissed, then ever so gently, touched Kate's reddened cheek with the tip of the riding crop. "I know what people like. I see it in their eyes, the way they breathe, the way they hold themselves. You still have a lot to learn if you want to move up to being a dominatrix dear. For now, know where your place is and stay there."

Without another word, Irene turned around and exited the room. She'd seen the hurt in Kate's eyes, and the last thing she needed was to allow such petty things to affect her.

This was another aspect of women, or rather people in general that puzzled her: sentiment. Hearts get broken all the time, sometimes for the most inconsequential reasons. Feelings only add complications to an already complicated world so why bother? Why can't people just be satisfied with the surge of bodily thrill brought upon by physical intimacy? Why bring the heart into it?

 _"You did once..."_

Irene stepped into her room and slammed the door, shaking her head from unpleasant thoughts. No, she wasn't a foolish, love struck teenager anymore. She was a woman grown and strengthened through the years. She wasn't going to let anyone use her again, and if she played her cards right, she will finally be out of Moriarty's clutches for good.

Irene scanned the room. The maid had already changed the sheets, drawn up the curtains and left breakfast for her on a tray by the bed. She started towards it when something on the dresser caught her eye.

It was the morning paper. She always requested for it to be brought up together with her breakfast but it was the first time it had given her a pause.

No. Not just a pause. It actually froze her in place, and it took her several moments before she was able to will her feet to move towards it.

She re-read the headline:

 **Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon**

Sherlock Holmes.

The bane of Jim Moriarty's existence.

The consulting detective whose exploits she had been following the past year.

The man whose life she had saved with a phone call.

His face.

Materialized at last.

Before Irene could stop herself, she reached out and snaked a well-manicured hand across the photograph of Sherlock Holmes, a deer stalker hat on his head, his hand pulling up his coat collar.

She sucked in a breath. Her heart was beating too fast. And why should it not, she thought. It was quite a surprise to find him looking so...so...

So not like his brother.

Such high cheek bones.

Such thick, long eyelashes.

Such nicely-shaped, soft-looking lips.

Such captivating eyes...

She exhaled loudly. She was just surprised, that was all. Surprised because she didn't expect to see a picture of him, today of all days, when she wasn't looking for it. And her sudden excitement...it was because this newspaper headline had paved the way for her to make her first move. With Sherlock Holmes' newfound fame as a highly-skilled detective, the monarchy will without a doubt, be seeking his help once she misbehaved.

Yes, that was it. No more, no less.

Irene straightened herself and stretched out her riding crop, her fingers tightening around the implement before she set it gently atop the newspaper. She picked up her phone from the dresser and for the first time, dialled Jim Moriarty's number without a hint of fear.

Moriarty answered after a single ring. "Ms. Adler?"

"Hello," Irene said, still a little out of breath. "I think it's time, don't you?"

"I take it you're ready to cause trouble for the Holmes boys?"

"Am I ever." _And ready to beat you at your own game_ , Irene added inwardly.

Yes, she thought. The game was very much on.


	6. Invaded

"Hello?"

"Hello. Am I speaking to Mr. Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes, this is he. Who is this?"

"Irene Adler. I'm assuming you've heard of me."

"What, the one from the tabloids? How did you get this number?"

"It doesn't matter how I got it, Mr. Holmes. What you do need to worry about is the next headline I'll be featured in...along with one of your masters' closest relations."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know my line of work. And both of us know that there is but one pretty young blueblood who has a penchant for the whip. I'd even go so far as to say she has always craved that type of attention, since it was the only one she seemed to get growing up. A little sad, don't you think?"

"Ms. Adler, if you're looking to blackmail the British Royal family, I'm afraid you're not the first to come forward with tall tales."

"Is it really in the realm of disbelief, Mr. Holmes?"

"Excuse me a moment, I need to check a message."

"That's from me. A little preview of what you might or might not see on the newsstands."

"...oh."

"Not so tall a tale now, isn't it? And there's more, so much more where that came from."

"What is it that you want, Ms. Adler?"

"To let you know that these photographs exist. Not to worry, I have no plans of selling these to the papers. Unless you do something that will upset me."

"And what is it that will upset you?"

"People who don't keep in line. I like it when people are exactly where I need them to be, when I need them to be."

"What is it that you need in exchange for these photographs? Money? Favour?"

"Neither, Mr. Holmes. Like I said, I just need you to be there where, and when I need you to be. And that includes your masters."

"I'm not quite sure I understand."

"You will soon. In the meantime, keep this number. I'll call you again when I'm ready to negotiate."

* * *

Irene ended the call with a smile on her face. She had made the call at half past midnight, which, according to Moriarty's data, was around the time Mycroft Holmes went to bed.

He probably won't be sleeping any time soon, Irene wagered, and chuckled to herself at the thought of one of Britain's foremost intelligence officers scrambling to do damage control.

She slipped her phone in the pocket of her dressing gown while keeping her Blackberry camera phone firmly in her other hand. That would be the last time she would be transmitting any data from this phone. Tonight, she will have to disable every uplink or connection if she were to keep its contents not only safe, but unique and valuable.

Fingers on keys, she worked around the settings until she turned the camera phone into nothing more than a storage device. Still giving it a firm grip, she rose from her bed and headed for the parlour downstairs. The lights were all out, and the only illumination was from the street lamps outside but she didn't need to see clearly to know what she needed to do. She had done this dozens of times ever since guarding the camera phone became her life.

Once in the parlour, she felt around the mantelpiece, found the buttons and pressed it. The mirror before her rose with a murmur of whirrs to reveal a cleverly hidden safe she'd had installed ever since she moved into the flat.

Still in the dim light, but with a great degree of familiarity, she pressed the key code to the safe and slipped her camera phone inside.

She let her fingers linger for a moment. This camera phone had been a double edged sword. The information within it had given her the life she was enjoying now, while at the same time bringing her closer to death. If she hadn't been so blinded...if she hadn't given in to the desire to have more than what she had...if she hadn't contacted Moriarty...

Irene shook her head and closed the safe. There was no use dwelling on 'what ifs'. The only thing that can be done is to move forward with her plans. To make Moriarty think she's playing by his rules in this twisted game. Then maybe she'll be lucky enough to escape with her life.

With a deep sigh, she straightened herself and blindly searched for the buttons to lower the mirror again.

The room suddenly brightened before she could press it. She spun around, fully expecting Kate by the door but was instead met by the sight of a man in dark clothing, with a gun aimed at her head.


	7. Threatened

"If you've come here for money, this is the wrong safe. I keep my cash in my bedroom," Irene Adler said in a calm voice as she stared at the barrel of the gun, her eyes unflinching, her heartbeat steady.

Of course she already knew this man wasn't here to rob her. His suit was expensive. Armani. His black shirt. Gucci. Rolex watch. Custom-made platinum ring on his finger. Hardly the getup of a robber.

Then there's the gun. High calibre. Military issue but not something she'd seen her military friends in London touted. And the gun was fitted with a suppressor.

A hit man? She wouldn't be surprised, especially with the political scandals she'd been involved in. And this man was good. If he hadn't turned on the lights, she wouldn't have known he was there. Well-trained; definitely done this before. And he wasn't shy about showing his face, which meant he had no intention of keeping her alive.

No, no, this wasn't a hit. If it was, she would already be dead. This man had something else in mind other than the dead body of a notorious dominatrix on the carpet.

"I'm not after your money, Ms. Adler," the man finally spoke. American. Ah, that explains the gun, Irene thought, but it also brought up questions. "What I need is the phone you just put in that safe."

Irene's brows met as she continued to assess the situation. The earpiece and coiled wire poking out from his ear and into his suit indicated he had companions yet he chose to go in alone. Confident. Ruthlessness and command in his voice. Hard lines on his oval face and a receding hairline pointed to decades of handling missions of a much more violent nature than this.

CIA operative was her best guess.

"What use would you have of an outdated phone?" Irene asked, still in a steady voice.

"Stop stalling, Ms. Adler." A cock of the gun and a few steps forward from the American. "D'you really think you can go through several high profile cryptographers without ringing alarm bells? We know exactly what you have in there. Open it."

The M.O.D. man's e-mail code. She knew it.

Irene crossed her arms and jutted her chin forward. Haughty. Indignant. "And what happens if I don't?"

In a flash, the American lunged forward, grabbing her throat and pressing the barrel of the gun's suppressor against side of her head. Quick temper. Prone to outbursts. Physically abusive to any female who had the misfortune of being involved with him. "Cooperate, or you'll have one big ugly red stain on these pretty wallpaper of yours."

"Okay, okay." Irene's voice was shaky now, eyes glistening with tears, lips quivering. Frightened. Weak.

He let her go with a hard shove to the mantelpiece.

She turned around to face the still exposed safe, her trembling lips forming into a hidden smile.

Making a show of shaky fingers, she dialled a six digit code, turning her head slightly so she could still see the American.

The burglar alarm rang the moment she pressed the last key.

The American looked up with a start.

Opportunity.

Irene grabbed his wrist and twisted his entire arm behind his back. He cried out in surprise, then in pain when she spun him around and slammed his head hard against the mantelpiece. Another tug, and she had his gun in her hands, the barrel aimed directly at his head.

Moron.

"The police will be here in two minutes," she said when the American regained a semblance of balance, his forehead sporting an ugly red mark, his unfocused eyes on the gun. "Unless you want to cause a diplomatic headache for your bosses, I suggest you leave where you came."

"Fuck you," the American spat and ran out the parlour. Irene waited until she heard clatter from the back door and the screeching of tires before she calmly disarmed the burglar alarm and opened the safe with the correct key code. She placed the gun beside the camera phone before closing the safe and concealing it behind the mirror once more. She could use that gun for later, she thought, as well as a change of locks for her doors.

"Irene?"

She glanced sideways and saw Kate, entering the parlour in her hastily worn dressing gown.

"What happened?"

"Not much dear. Just a little break in," Irene winked at her companion, her body still humming with adrenalin. This wasn't her first time being threatened at gunpoint, and she had learned more than a few pointers along the way. Her profession certainly allowed her a world of knowledge on how to inflict the most damage, so that American never stood much of a chance from the start even with his experience. That, and the fact that he had fallen for her theatrics. Guess those drama lessons from Ms. Allison were paying off...

She shook her head. "Kate, please go and lock the back door. If the police come in, tell them the alarm was faulty. We can't let them know about the break in."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

Kate nodded, but didn't leave the door way. "Are you...okay?"

"I'm fine. I just need to catch my breath. Go."

Kate hesitated another moment before finally leaving, closing the door behind her. Once Irene heard the latch click, she took out her phone from her dressing gown pocket and dialled Moriarty's number.

"Jim," she said before he had the chance to greet her. "I just got a visit from a CIA agent."

"Oh," Moriarty inflected in a singsong tone. "Did you give him a cuppa or a whipping?"

"He threatened to blow my head off if I didn't give him my camera phone," Irene stressed, and she had to remind herself to at least keep her voice down.

"Did you give it to him?"

"Of course not. I managed to disarm him and scare him off."

"Good girl."

That struck a nerve. "This isn't funny, Jim. He could've gotten the camera phone. I could've died."

"But you didn't, so I don't see what the problem is," Moriarty replied, and it irked Irene how he could be so nonchalant about this.

"Jim, they were after the photo I took of that M.O.D. man's e-mail." Irene took a deep breath to calm herself. "Tell me...what exactly is in that code? Why are the Americans so interested in it?"

"You wish to know of my plans now, do you?" Moriarty's tone had changed from nonchalant to menacing. "Keep your fingers to yourself, Ms. Adler. Your job is to find a way to have that e-mail deciphered by Sherlock Holmes. That's it.

"Now," Moriarty's tone was once again jovial, "Did you manage to get in touch with the Iceman?"

"Yes." Irene said in a defeated tone. It was now clear to her that even though she was carrying out an important task, Jim Moriarty didn't care whether or not she died. She was just a pawn—replaceable if needed. She would have no choice but to keep herself of value to him if she were to stay alive. "He knows I have the photographs."

"Good," Moriarty drawled. "You know what to do next. I'll be expecting an update within the next twelve hours."

Irene's eyes widened. Twelve hours! That was far too short a time. She had to leave for a client in a few hours, not to mention have the locks changed and secure the safe.

Still, she had to swallow all her objections. Moriarty was not a man to be refused. "Of course, Jim."

"That's my good girl."

The call ended. Irene listened to the silence at the other end of the line before pocketing the phone once more.

She let out a deep sigh. It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _I would consider this definitely another one of those missing scenes from ASiB. Nielsen (the CIA trained killer) had mentioned that he knows Irene has another key code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm, so he has learned not to trust the woman. Irene also mentioned for Dr. Watson to check the back door, which is why I wrote that Nielsen came in through there._

 _Oh, and if you notice a bit of vibe from the Sherlock RDJ movies, you're not imagining things ;)_

 _Next chapter will be titled "Defrocked". I think that should give you all an idea as to what will happen next ;) Please stay tuned, and don't be shy about hitting the kudos or the comment button :)_


	8. Planted

**A/N: First off, I would like to express my sincerest apologies. I know I said in the last chapter that this chapter would be titled "Defrocked" but after doing rewrites, I realize I will have to move that one chapter more. This one here has a missing scene that needs to be told first. Thank you so much for continuing to follow this fic!**

* * *

Irene stared at the rows of sprawling houses as Kate drove her to an early session with a client. It was barely seven in the morning, but this client of hers had a particular schedule that needed to be followed.

She moved her eyes over to her reflection from the rear view mirror. Despite her white, classy Alexander Mcqueen dress, her meticulously styled dark hair and flawlessly applied make up, she could still see the strain in her eyes from everything that had transpired the night before. After her conversation with Moriarty, she had called for a 24-hour locksmith service to change the locks while she worked on rigging the safe using the gun she had taken from the American.

It wasn't her first booby trap. Such was the constant danger she faced on a daily basis ever since she became part of Moriarty's web.

She leaned her head against the backrest, careful so as not to ruin her hair. She lacked sleep. If she had her way, she would cancel this appointment but she needed to do this; needed to have a sense of normalcy in her life, if only for an hour or two, until she could clear her head enough to come up with a plan to get Sherlock Holmes to help her with the code.

Her phone rang and she shut her eyes tightly. _"Don't let it be Jim. Don't let it be Jim."_

She looked. It wasn't.

She quickly hit the answer button. "Why hello, Detective Inspector Carter," she managed in the husky tone she usually reserved for clients. "Are you so impatient for this morning's activities, hmm?"

"Actually, Ms. Adler, I called to apologize," Detective Inspector Carter said in an exasperated tone which made Irene arch a delicate eyebrow. "I'm afraid I have to cancel our appointment. I had a case this morning, you see. I thought it was cut and dry until this Sherlock Holmes character comes in and—"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Irene almost jumped out of her seat, and she had to remind herself to keep her voice cool. "The private detective from the papers? He's with you right now?"

"Well, yes, and no," came Detective Carter's flustered reply. "He had a friend, a Dr. John Watson come over with a laptop. I've moved away for some privacy while they're setting up the wifi so Mr. Holmes can inspect the crime scene via Skype. Can you believe that?"

She could very well believe it, Irene thought, and she found herself stifling a laugh. Already, she was feeling much better. This second hand information about Sherlock Holmes' quirks was positively riveting.

Then, a moment of clarity. "Detective Inspector, would you mind terribly if I put you on hold for a moment?"

"No, not at all, Ms. Adler."

Irene put the call on hold then dialled a number she had only called once within the last several hours. It took three rings before the tired voice of Mycroft Holmes came on the line.

"Ms. Adler."

"Mr. Holmes." Irene grinned. "I take it you didn't get much sleep last night."

"I've had better nights, yes," Mycroft affirmed in a clipped voice. "Do I take it you're ready to negotiate?"

"That, I am." This was it, Irene thought. It was time to choose her words carefully. "Send me your best man. And I suggest you kneel down and pray he won't be so susceptible to my charms. _Most_ men are, you know."

There. She did it. Planted the idea in his head.

You can't kill an idea once it has taken root.

"Very well," Mycroft said after a brief moment. "Where do you wish for this negotiation to take place?"

"My flat. In two hours. I'll text you the address." She ended the call before Mycroft could say another word, then switched back to Detective Inspector Carter's call. "Sorry, I had to call another client so they can fill in for your cancelled session."

"I'm really sorry, Ms. Adler." The detective inspector had the decency to sound sheepish. "Is there anything I can do to make up for this?"

Irene's smile widened. This was getting rather fun. "Now that you mentioned it, there is one thing..."

* * *

Irene's face remained impassive as she gazed out the car window, her eyes looking at nothing in particular. She had asked Kate to drive them back to the house, which she knew confused her young protégée. That the girl kept looking at her from the rear view mirror was indicative of this especially since Irene had given little explanation except to say she had more pressing matters to attend to.

Irene continued to lose herself in thought. The delight she had felt earlier when she was in conversation with Detective Inspector Carter and Mycroft Holmes had now begun to fade to worry. After the call, she had texted Moriarty that she had manipulated Mr. Holmes into sending his little brother to her flat. But what if the man had decided to send someone else instead?

No, no, that couldn't be, Irene thought. She had to give Mr. Holmes a bit of more credit. He couldn't have reached his position in the British government if he didn't have the brains for it. He had to have gotten her message.

The text alert on her phone went off.

Moriarty.

 _I'm sending you a treat.  
3 images attached_

She set her phone down and tried to appear relaxed, though there was no denying the flutter in her chest. She wasn't sure if this message was a good thing or a bad thing. Moriarty had a tendency to hide threats behind honey-coated words.

Kate parked the car in front of Irene's 44 Belgravia flat before promptly getting out to open the door for her domme.

Irene gave her a small smile as she stepped out. "You go in ahead, Kate. I just need to check a message."

Kate nodded and did as she was told. Irene looked around to make sure she had a bit of privacy before hitting buttons to download the attached images.

She entered the flat, the phone still clutched in her hands. It wasn't until she had gotten to the second floor when the images were finally downloaded into her phone: photos of Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in a sheet and being escorted rather unwillingly into an expensive car.

She scrolled through the photos, each one tugging at the corners of her lips until she was finally unable to stop herself from smiling. He was probably being taken to Buckingham Palace when the pictures were taken, which meant everything was going according to plan.

Which meant that after years of reading about his exploits, she would finally meet the man in the flesh.

Still with a smile on her face, Irene headed towards her bedroom, took off her Louboutins and stockings and sat on the bed. She still needed sleep, but she'll be damned if she fell asleep now, and her mind certainly wasn't allowing her to; especially not when candid images of a sheet-clad Sherlock Holmes still preyed on her mind. She wondered, with not-so-hidden amusement, what the queen's reaction would be if Sherlock was presented to her in that state. Still, she doubted whether the royal matriarch would even show herself. Too much publicity was running on this scandal. Discretion was the key, possibly to the point of the communication only happening through channels.

Her text alert went off again.

 _From: JM_  
 _Message:_  
 _The Virgin has left the palace._  
 _2 images attached_

Irene hit the download option and once more, browsed through photos of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. The consulting detective's expression was more tranquil than the earlier photos she saw of him. He even had a rare smile on his face. She had to confess she found him quite attractive; then again that should not be so surprising. After all, he had a delicate, almost effeminate look about him that she liked.

Still, she should not be so careless, she thought. He may look like a kitten, but she knew underneath all that was a tiger—calculating, cunning, ready to strike when the time is right.

 _"Well, this tigress better prepare herself for a battle,"_ she thought, and called for Kate. She was going to need a bit of time to get ready.

In fact, she was going to need ages.


	9. Defrocked

**A/N: Happy Valentine's day everyone! I now have for you a bit of treat. As promised, here's "Defrocked", which will finally show our two protagonists meeting face to face. Anyone who's watched ASiB already knows what's going to happen of course, but the show leans more towards Sherlock's perspective (naturally) so I hope you'll enjoy this fresh take from Irene's eyes.**

* * *

Irene leaned over the railing from the second floor, careful so as not to be seen by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson as Kate ushered them into the kitchen for a first aid kit. She'd heard and seen everything—from Kate's improved acting skills, to Sherlock's theatrics as a victim of a mugging as a ruse to be allowed access to her flat. It was bad enough that the detective's performance was over the top, but he was disguised as a priest. The irony did not escape Irene, considering what she had chosen to wear for their first meeting.

She moved quietly back to her room and sat in front of her dresser, checking her freshly made up face from angle to angle to spot imperfections. There were none that she could see. Kate had done a tremendous job refreshing her makeup, particularly her lips, which now shone red as blood.

She adjusted her sheer green peignoir around herself. The weather was still fairly cold that morning but she would have to get used to it. Things will be getting chillier once she puts on her battle dress.

She heard Kate come up the stairs and watched the girl make an appearance from the dresser mirror. "He's in the parlour. His friend's still in the kitchen."

"Good," Irene said breathlessly, and with a grace she had long since affected, rose and began to undress.

Once the peignoir, underwear, garter and stockings pooled around her feet, she stepped away to slip on her Louboutins, sprayed on her favourite perfume and turned to face Kate, who eyed her with noticeable wonderment. Irene rarely, if ever, undressed for anyone (except for those assignments and affairs Moriarty had ordered her to do), and she certainly never undressed for her clients or subs. That was an integral part of a dominatrix—for her submissives to be exposed and humiliated while she remained shielded in an armour of lace.

But Sherlock Holmes was neither a client nor a sub. He was, as Moriarty had coined, "The Virgin", and now, Irene was going to use that to her advantage.

With confident steps that announced her presence, Irene walked down the stairs and towards the direction of the parlour.

"Hello, sorry to hear that you've been hurt," she called, adding a touch of concern in her voice as she neared the doorway. "I don't think Kate caught your name."

"I'm so sorry, I'm..."

Irene paused by the open door and watched as Sherlock Holmes froze on the couch, the words dying on his lips. She saw his eyes flicker across her body, then to her face, before his jaw slackened. It was exactly the reaction had been hoping for. Her battle dress—her nudity—which to her paradoxically represented weakness and humiliation, was now a suit of armour that rendered Sherlock Holmes' virginal brain temporarily incapacitated.

"Oh, it's always so hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" With poise in her spine and in her strides, she drew herself closer to the detective and straddled his thigh with her leg, taking care to graze her knee against a part of his anatomy she intended to stimulate.

"Well, there now." She reached out, and pulled the white clerical collar from Sherlock's shirt, just as the detective leaned back into the couch's throw pillow, his eyes still fixated on her face. She found the attention quite...thrilling to be honest. "We're both defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Ms. Adler, I presume."

His eyes—light, undecidedly blue or green or a combination of both—were still locked on her face. And that baritone! It still surprised her somewhat to hear the voice come from him. She'd expected him to sound a little more like how he looked, but admittedly, his masculine tone wasn't at all unpleasant to her ears. Far from it.

Her own gaze moved over his face—long lashes, pleasantly structured nose, soft-looking lips and... "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face."

Sherlock didn't respond. In fact, he seemed to have frozen solid; and that wasn't the only part of him that did, which made Irene's skin grow warm.

"Would you like me to try?" she continued with a seductive tone and bit the clerical collar for extra effect. She began to imagine the things she would do to him—maybe press him further into the couch, move her knee between his legs some more, make him focus on more than just her eyes, find out what it was that he liked so she could exploit it.

Then, a male voice rang from outside the parlour. "Right, this should do it."

Irene looked up and found Dr. Watson at the door, a bowl of what she assumed was icy water in his hands, and a look of surprise, shock and embarrassment playing on his deeply-lined face.

She saw the doctor look away for a moment, then narrow his eyes suspiciously. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Irene took the clerical collar away from her mouth and steadied her breathing. The interruption, to her surprise, was quite unwelcome. "Please. Sit down, or if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

"I had some in the palace," Sherlock finally spoke in a hurried tone that indicated to Irene he had not intended to reveal where he had been.

"I know," she drawled and sat down on the armchair across him.

"Clearly." He stared at her again, more intensely this time and she reciprocated in kind, though she suddenly found herself crossing her arms and legs strategically around her body. His attentions were beginning to become uncomfortable; not because he was looking at her in a perverse way, no.

It was because for the first time in her life, a man was looking at her in a way that made her feel truly naked—naked in a sense that she felt as though he could see right through her.

Still, she managed to hide her unexpected turmoil behind a mask of steely gaze and frozen smiles.

Dr. Watson said something, but she didn't hear. She was focused solely on Sherlock Holmes and his shockingly intense eyes that continued to bore through her.

His brow twitched before he slowly turned to Dr. Watson, his eyes moving over his friend and back towards her again.

Then she realized.

Sherlock Holmes was confused.

Somehow, she had managed to confound the great detective.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, confidence in her voice once more. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

Sherlock's brows came together, his long fingers fiddling with the top button of his shirt. "You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power," Irene responded in a breath, tilted her head and added, "In your case, it's yourself."

For the first time, Sherlock Holmes glared at her. It was strangely sexy, this annoyed expression of his. He was such a joy to tease.

She leaned forward. "And somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too."

She looked pointedly at Dr. Watson, who let out a nervous chuckle before his face turned serious. "Could you put something on, please? Uh, anything at all? Uh, napkin?"

A gentleman. Good moral compass. Good head on his shoulders though not quite as smart as Sherlock. Vanilla. Boring.

"Why?" Irene affected in a challenging tone. "Are you feeling exposed?"

"I don't think John knows where to look." Sherlock stood up from the couch and with his face turned away, handed Irene his own coat.

Irene's smile widened at the gesture. "No, I think he knows exactly where." She strode towards the doctor, still in the nude and towering over him in her Louboutins. Unlike Sherlock's unblinking stare, Dr. Watson's eyes showed clear shades of discomfort, unable to hold hers for even a moment.

Definitely boring. No challenge at all.

She turned to Sherlock and took the coat. "Not sure about you."

She heard Sherlock take in a breath. "If I was to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop."

"You do borrow my laptop."

"I confiscate it."

"Oh, never mind," Irene interrupted. For some reason, she felt a twinge of annoyance at the familiarity between the two men. "We've got better things to talk about.

"Now tell me, I need to know." She buttoned up the coat, walked back to the couch and sat down. It wasn't until she had taken off her Louboutins that she realized she was sitting on the exact spot where Sherlock had been. The throw pillow was still warm against her. She leaned in further into it. "How was it done?"

Sherlock gave a visible jolt. "What?"

"The hiker with the bashed in head," Irene answered casually. "How was he killed?"

"That's not why...I'm here." Again, Sherlock Holmes' face was riddled with befuddlement. Irene made a mental note to thank Detective Inspector Carter again for the information.

"No, we know you're here for the photographs," Irene revealed, still keeping up with a casual air, "but that's never going to happen and since we're here just chatting anyway—"

"That story's not been on the news yet," Dr. Watson cut in and stepped closer, evidently more at ease now that Irene was clothed in Sherlock's coat. "How did you know about it?"

"I know one of the policemen," Irene explained. "Well, I know what he likes."

"Oh." Dr. Watson sat beside her. "And you...like policemen?"

Ah, this was familiar, Irene thought. The tone, the way he looked at her and clutched the bowl. The doctor was a hair's breadth away from flirting with her.

"I like detective stories. _And_ detectives," Irene emphasized. At the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock slowly lower his head in thought. She added, "Brainy is the new sexy."

One corner of Dr. Watson's lip curled up into a smile. He was starting to turn on the charm, as Irene had expected.

"Puzzishonuvakah—"

Irene snapped her head towards Sherlock. Did he just stammer?

"Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know," Sherlock managed it one breath, though Irene caught the way his jaws tightened, possibly from clenching his teeth behind closed lips. She smiled. Yes, he had definitely stammered. Afraid his friend would get a one up over him perhaps?

But now was no longer the time to tease, she thought. "Okay, tell me. How was he murdered?"

Sherlock eyed her. "He wasn't."

"You don't think it was murder?"

"I know it wasn't." He was very self-assured, Irene thought, she'd grant him that. But to be absolutely certain based on so little evidence?

She narrowed her eyes. "How?"

"The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

There was something about the way his lips moved, the inflections in his deep voice, the way he talked—words in one linear form of thought—that captivated her. It showed a degree of intelligence such that she had never encountered before. It was fascinating. "Okay, but how?"

She saw Sherlock smirk. "So they are in this room. Thank you."

 _Damn it_ , Irene thought. She got careless. She should've known he was leading up to something.

Sherlock turned to Dr. Watson. "John, man the door. Let no one in."

Dr. Watson promptly did as he was told, closing the door behind him. Irene pulled herself up from her slumped position. Did the doctor lock the door? Was Sherlock going to coerce her into revealing the location of the photographs? She'd seen them share a glance. What were they up to?

Sherlock started pacing again. "Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart, and one car."

"Oh," Irene said in surprise. "I, I thought we were looking for the photos now."

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Looking takes ages. I'm just going to find them but you're moderately clever and we've got a moment, so let's pass the time."

A smile found its way on Irene's red lips once more. Moderately clever? She supposed she should take that as a compliment.

What happened next was something Irene could only describe as surreal: Sherlock Holmes, taking her into a mental journey to the crime scene.

"Two men, a car, and nobody else." In her mind, she saw him squat down next to the car, showing a frustrated driver at the wheel. "The driver's trying to fix his engine. Getting nowhere." He then turned towards the distance, where the other man stood in a field by the stream. "And the hiker's taking a moment, looking at the sky."

Then, he was at the field next to hiker, whose eyes were still fixed on the heavens. "Watching the birds? Any moment now, something's going to happen. What?"

Irene suddenly found herself put on the spot. She was still seated on the couch, but she felt as though she were truly with him on that field. "The hiker's going to die."

"No." Sherlock shook his head and walked around the still hiker. "That's the result. What's going to happen?"

She blinked. "I don't understand."

"Oh, well , try to." Annoyance in his voice. He started drawing away from her.

Irene couldn't stop frustration from creeping in to her voice. "Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think. It's the new sexy."

Irene bristled at the comment, her hands clutched so tightly together her knuckles turned white. First she was moderately clever, and now she was boring? No, she had to prove to him that she was as, if not cleverer than him.

Though why she felt the need was beyond her. "The car's about to backfire."

"There's going to be a loud noise," Sherlock continued. Irene took his subdued tone as an indicator that she had said something right.

Still, she wasn't sure how all these proved the hiker wasn't murdered. "So what?"

"Oh, noises are important," he explained, still in the same subdued tone. "Noises can tell you everything. For instance..."

He trailed off, and she looked questioningly at his face. Why did he stop? Was he expecting her to finish his sentence?

The smoke alarm cuts through Irene's thoughts.

Panic instantly set in and before she could stop herself, she turned to the direction of the mirror above the mantelpiece.

Sherlock followed her gaze. "Thank you."

She blinked. The smoke alarm was still blaring. What was going on?

"On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child." Sherlock slowly strode towards the mantelpiece. "Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."

Irene shot up to her feet as Sherlock groped around the mantelpiece. She cursed herself inwardly, certain now that it was Dr. Watson who set off the alarm. Had they planned this all along?

Sherlock found the buttons and pressed them, the mirror sliding up to reveal the safe. He turned to her, a cocky expression on his face. "Really hope you don't have a baby in here."

Sherlock called for Dr. Watson to turn off the alarm. It took a moment before things quieted down just in time for Irene to steady her nerves and assure herself that all was not lost. Sherlock was yet to figure out the key code to her safe...if he truly knew where to look that is.

"Hmm..." Sherlock leaned closer to the safe, squinting. "You should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used. That's quite clearly the three. But after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday. No disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties. The eight's barely used, so..."

Ah, so he was going to try and find out the code in a more traditional way. Quite amateur, really, Irene thought with a tight smile. She knew now from the last several minutes since she had interacted with him that Sherlock Holmes was a man of whom sex was so alarming, the cues would go over his head.

"I'd tell you the code right now," Irene cut in, making the detective turn his head towards her. "But you know what? I already have."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion once more, his mouth hanging open.

"Think," Irene enthused. The tables were turned now. It was time for Sherlock Holmes to prove he really had brains enough for the job...provided said brains would not be blown off if he did manage to open the safe.

But no, no, she wasn't going to let it go that far, Irene thought. This was a thoroughly entertaining game of wits, and she wouldn't be averse to prolonging it for as long as possible.

The door suddenly burst open, and in came a familiar face.

The American from last night.

Game over.

* * *

 **End Notes:** **Hope you enjoyed that. The next chapter is already finished but I'll still need to polish it up a bit.**

 **Some notes about the actual episode:**  
 **\- Ironic how Sherlock dresses up as a priest while Irene is completely naked. Opposites attract in this aspect, yet they are of course very similar to each other**  
 **\- From my research, dominatrices rarely, if ever undress for subs. They're usually dressed in leather or latex but in Irene's case of course, she prefers classy lace**  
 **\- In the DVD commentary, Lara Pulver (Irene Adler) straddled Benedict Cumberbatch's (Sherlock Holmes) thigh with her leg. Ben said the scene was not easy for him to do, especially with her boobs on his face.**  
 **\- It was never explained why Irene suddenly felt the need to cover herself with her arms and legs strategically. I would've thought she'd keep them open. I guess it was for the TV censors but here, I explained it as though she was suddenly feeling vulnerable from Sherlock's gaze, at least temporarily. Despite appearing confident, I wanted to show that Irene is still very much human, and that she has a lot of fears and insecurities**  
 **\- Yup, Irene sat in the exact spot Sherlock was on the couch. Watch the episode again.**  
 **\- Benedict Cumberbatch has stated that Sherlock stuttering was something he did himself, because Sherlock saw John Watson starting to turn on the charm on Irene, and in his desperation in trying to impress her and get her attention again, ended up stumbling over his words**

 **Thanks for reading guys! Hope you'll continue to follow this and feel free to leave comments. I like hearing from readers.**


	10. Floored

"Hands behind your head, on the floor, keep it still!" The American strode determinedly into the room, followed by two other similarly dressed men (possibly CIA as well), who had apparently subdued Dr. Watson.

Guess the American learned his lesson and brought in some backup, Irene thought.

One of the men grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her beside Dr. Watson, who was already on his knees, a gun against his head.

The American from the night before glared daggers at her. "Ms. Adler, on the floor."

His companion pushed her down on her knees. If looks could kill, she would have had the American's head rolling on the carpet. She detested being brought to her knees. It was a position meant only for her clients and submissives and definitely not for her.

Sherlock's voice momentarily disrupted her from her anger. "Don't you want me on the floor too?"

"No, sir," the American responded, a gun similar to the one Irene had taken from him aimed at Sherlock's chest. "I want you to open the safe."

Irene saw Sherlock's eyes widen. He'd caught the accent. "American. Interesting. Why would you care?"

Sherlock turned to look at her, and for the first time that day, she averted eyes. She couldn't allow him to know exactly what else was in that camera phone. Not yet. She had to come up with a plan but it wasn't simple this time. They were outgunned.

The American's patience was wearing thin. "Sir, the safe, now, please."

"I don't know the code," Sherlock answered in all confidence. Strange how he could be so calm in a situation such as this, Irene thought. Was he already coming up with a strategy?

"We've been listening," the American revealed. "She said she told you."

Irene winced. She should've known they would bug her flat. What she wasn't expecting was how soon the Americans would be back for the camera phone. What exactly was in that damned code?

"Well, if you've been listening," Sherlock continued, "you'll know she didn't."

The American took in a breath. "I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr. Holmes."

"For God's sake!" Dr. Watson declared from beside her, gesturing to her with his head, hands still raised. "She's the one who knows the code. Ask her!"

"Yes, sir. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm." The American gave her another sharp glare. "I've learned not to trust this woman."

That razor edge in the American's voice. She had to do something. "Mr. Holmes doesn't—"

"Shut up," the American hissed at her. "One more word out of you, just one, and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, would not be hardship."

At least he didn't rehash his threats, Irene thought dismally. He was obviously used to giving them too.

"Mr. Archer," the American addressed one of his companions, "at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson."

Dr. Watson gave a visible jolt. "What?"

"I don't know the code," Sherlock insisted once more, his tone still even.

The American began counting. "One."

"I don't...know...the code."

"Two."

"She didn't tell me. I don't know it!"

Sherlock's sudden outburst jarred Irene. She could tell him, she thought. She could tell him, and save Dr. Watson's life but at the cost of Sherlock's once he opens the safe, as well as her own once the Americans get their hands on her camera phone. So many scenarios with very little chance for success—except one.

She would have to put a little more faith in Sherlock's quick wit if they were going to get out of this alive.

She didn't believe in telepathy, but she willed for the detective to look at her anyway.

The American pressed on. "I'm prepared to believe you any second now."

Finally, Sherlock looked at her, and she responded by deliberately dropping her gaze to her body. If he could declare with confidence that that hiker wasn't murdered based on so little evidence, then he should get her meaning.

"Three!"

"No, stop!" Sherlock exclaimed, and for a moment time did seem to stop. Irene stared at his face, the way his eyes moved as if looking at fast streaming data before he turned to the safe.

He began to enter the code slowly.

3

2

2

4

The corners of Irene's mouth quirked up.

3

4

The safe made a beeping noise before the latch loosened with a click, and Irene stifled her ever widening smile.

He got it, she thought. He remembered after just one look, and it made her cheeks flush.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." The American's voice was calmer now. "Open it, please."

 _"Don't!"_ Irene thought as Sherlock turned the safe's knob.

Almost as if he was able to read her thoughts, he gave her one sidelong glance, and she quickly snapped her head downwards. _"Duck!"_

A pause.

Then, Sherlock's strange words. "Vatican cameos!"

What happened next was a blur of almost perfectly coordinated motions—the doctor, getting down to the floor, Sherlock ducking as he opened the safe, triggering the gun mechanism Irene had set up the night before and shooting one of the Americans; Sherlock disarming the American in Armani and knocking him unconscious with his own gun, and Irene elbowing the groin of the American beside her then grabbing his gun while he writhed on his knees in pain.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock flipping the American's gun around and looking at her in a most peculiar way before saying, "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she said, understanding his meaning and knocking out the only American left standing (figuratively anyway) with a hard blow from the butt of the gun.

Dr. Watson rose from beside the American that had been shot by the trap. "He's dead."

Irene didn't want to think about that now, and addressed her comments to Sherlock. "Thank you. You were very...observant." She gave him a meaningful stare. "I'm flattered."

He returned the stare. His eyes were intense again. "Don't be."

Dr. Watson had parroted her words but she ignored him. Poor confused sod.

"There'll be more of them." Sherlock ran for the door. "They'll be keeping an eye on the building."

Dr. Watson was quick to follow his friend out of the parlour, more likely to check the surroundings. Once they left, Irene hurried to the safe and to her horror, found the camera phone gone.

Gunshots rang from outside her flat followed by screeching tires. That was going to get the attention of the police.

Time was running out.

"Check the rest of the house," she heard Sherlock say to Dr. Watson. "See how they got in."

She turned and saw the detective enter the parlour alone, flipping her camera phone in his hand. "Well, that's the knighthood in the bag."

She let out a sigh both of frustration and relief. She held out her hand. "And that's mine."

She watched as Sherlock pressed buttons, the phone making beeping noises. He was probably looking at her lock screen now, she thought: a unique interface with a four-key input box sandwiched between the words _'I AM LOCKED'_.

"All the photographs are on here, I presume?" he asked.

"I have copies, of course." A fib. It was a feeble one, and she knew he would figure that out easily.

"No you don't." He shook his head. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone prove to be unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

She jutted her chin forward. Feigned confidence. "Who said I'm selling?"

"Well, why would they be interested?" He looked at the three men sprawled over the carpet. She had no answer for him. "Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs."

"That camera phone is my life, Mr. Holmes." Irene took several steps forward and held out her hand once more. She was desperate now, and she knew it was slowly seeping into her voice. "I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection."

Those were the first truly honest words she had spoken to him that day, and some part of her hoped that after what they had been through, he would know how dire the consequences would be for her if she lost the camera phone.

But when he held it away from her, she knew Sherlock Holmes' trust was a hard-earned one. "It was."

He left the room once more, following Dr. Watson's calls for him on the second floor. She quickly followed him up the stairs and into her bedroom, where she found the two men pacing the room after having found the Americans' entry way from the bathroom window.

Then, she saw Kate on the floor. Her heart started to pound faster until Dr. Watson held out a hand. "It's alright, she's just out cold."

"Oh, God knows she's used to that." Irene couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief but there was no time to deal with her sub anymore. She needed to get her camera phone back and escape. And she knew exactly how.

She turned to the doctor. "There's a back door. Better check it Dr. Watson."

"Sure."

Irene walked towards her dresser, listening to the doctor's fading footsteps before discreetly taking a syringe from the drawer.

"You're very calm," Sherlock mused. Her shoulders turned rigid as she turned to face him. In retrospect, maybe she should've acted more despondent. "Well, your booby trap did just kill a man."

"He would've killed me," she replied, sauntering closer to him. He was still turning the camera phone in his hands but quickly held it away when she was within reach. "It was self-defence in advance."

Irene ran a hand seductively from his shoulder to his arm, grazing nerves she knew would be firing immodest signals to the brain of any man, even more so to a virgin like Sherlock Holmes.

When he followed her hand with his eyes, she knew she had him.

In one swift move, she plunged the syringe into his other shoulder.

He gasped. "What is that?! What?"

She slapped him, bringing him to the hardwood floor.

"Give it to me. Now!" She reached out her hand again, the sensation from slapping his cheek still stinging her palm quite pleasantly. "Give it to me."

"No," Sherlock slurred, even as the drug quickly worked through his bloodstream, his movements becoming more uncoordinated.

"Give it to me."

"No."

"For goodness sake." Irene grabbed the riding crop from her dresser and held it up threateningly. "Drop it."

Still, the detective refused. And that's when her pride as a dominatrix kicked in.

"I..." SMACK! "...said..." SMACK! "...drop it!" SMACK!

Sherlock finally fell on his back with a loud thud and lost his grip on the camera phone.

"Ah, thank you dear." Irene promptly picked up the phone, making sure he hadn't been able to figure out her password. He hadn't. "Now, tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. Not for blackmail. Just for insurance." Of course, she had just said that to drive home to his drug-addled brain that the photographs were the only important contents in the phone. It'll at least buy her a bit of time. "Besides, I might want to see her again."

Sherlock started to stand. She brought him back down again with a foot to his chest. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it."

She stroked his face with the tip of the riding crop and watched with rapt fascination as he seemed to lean towards it, seeking it, wanting the pain from it like her subs and clients had done before. A reaction to the drug perhaps, only this time it felt as though she were the one drugged.

She needed to get away. She needed to hurry and escape. Yet she was still here, taking her time, taking delight in the almost erotic expression on the great Sherlock Holmes' face. It sent her blood boiling. She needed to see more of this...more of him.

She will see more of him.

But now was no longer the time.

"This is how I want you to remember me," she cooed, giving his jaw one more caress with the riding crop, "the woman who beat you.

"Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said breathlessly, running a tongue across her teeth before heading towards the bathroom, just as Dr. Watson returned.

"Jesus!" the doctor declared when he saw his friend writhing on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"He'll sleep for a few hours." Irene sat on the bathroom's windowsill, adjusting the rope the Americans had used to get inside the house. "Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse."

"What's this?" Dr. Watson asked, the empty syringe in his hand. "What have you given him?"

"He'll be fine," Irene assured. "I've used it on loads of my friends."

Dr. Watson was clearly not assured as he kneeled down and leaned over the detective, trying to get him to focus.

She didn't like that for some reason. "You know, I was wrong about him."

The doctor was on his feet again, and Irene found herself glad to have gotten his attention away from Sherlock. "He did know where to look."

"For what? What are you talking about?"

Still the confused sod, Irene thought with a rueful smile. "The key code to my safe."

"W-what was it?"

"Shall I tell him?" She gave a disoriented Sherlock a look before answering. "My measurements."

With a tug of the rope and a kick to the tub, she sent herself swinging outside the window and into the world.

* * *

 **A/N: That's it for this particular canon ASiB scene (peppered with a few head canons of course). The next chapter will be almost entirely head canon, and is already half way done. I'm still working out on how to cover a few plot holes but will hopefully post before the week is over. Remember that kudos and comments are love and would definitely make me write faster *wink wink***


	11. Returned

**A/N: Get ready for a long read. This chapter consists mainly of head canons and speculation, as well as a teensy bit of AU. Took me a while to work the details out, garnering clues from the episode itself. It was an enjoyable exercise in imagination and sleuthing and I hope you guys enjoy this** **J** **Oh, and this chapter isn't for general audiences. Nothing NSFW, but you'll know once you read that part.**

* * *

Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Cafe was a flurry of activity as customers rushed in for lunch, lobbying for the few seats available. Outside, people bumped shoulders on the sidewalk as they stared almost mindlessly at the screens of their phones, barely paying any heed towards their surroundings.

They certainly did not notice the slim young man in the oversized gray hoodie, faded jeans and scuffed sneakers, who had been pacing back and forth by the cafe for the past half hour. To the few cafe regulars who did notice, he may appear suspicious; but then again there have been more than enough suspicious characters hanging around the nearby 221 B Baker street flat. One of the tenants there was certainly the type to associate with these flakes.

The young man stopped pacing and leaned heavily against one of the railings close to the cafe, his backpack acting as a cushion. Seeing some eyes on him, he took out his mobile with a gloved hand and pretended to be engrossed. Hopefully no one would be calling. He'd rather not take any calls at the moment.

A car came to a stop in front of the 221 B flat. The young man looked up, but not too fast so as not to arouse suspicion.

From beneath his hood, he saw three men alight from the vehicle. One of the men—a shorter one with ash blonde hair—was assisting a taller gentleman with a head of dark curls, who looked like he'd had a pint too many. The other man, also a tall figure but with salt and pepper hair, was standing before them, grinning as he held up his phone.

The young man recognized them of course: Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

"For God's sake Lestrade, would you please stop filming and help me with Sherlock?" Dr. Watson grimaced, struggling to keep his disoriented flatmate on his feet. "He's not exactly lightweight."

"Hold on, hold on." Detective Lestrade continued, his smile growing ever wider. "He might say something more—"

Sherlock suddenly retched and threw up on Dr. Watson's shoes.

"Oh bloody—"

"Perfect!"Detective Lestrade was practically jumping in excitement. "Wait til the boys in the office see this!"

"I was going to wear these shoes for a date tonight," Dr. Watson bemoaned, shaking his brown boots.

"You're really going to push through with that?" Detective Lestrade finally pocketed his phone and went to put Sherlock's other limp arm over his shoulders. "I told you, we're not yet sure if Sherlock's been injected with Ketamine or GHB so he'll need to be constantly monitored..."

The men's voices faded away as they entered the flat. The moment the door closed, the young man in the hoodie broke into a sprint around the building until he reached a small alleyway in the back.

Quickly taking a pair of small binoculars from his backpack, he set his sights on the second floor window where he saw shadows moving about. The window was closed, but the curtains were open wide enough for him to see Detective Lestrade and Dr. Watson, probably putting Sherlock to bed.

The man in the hoodie beamed a smile as he lowered the binoculars and looked over to the nearby fire escape. Yes, he thought. This would do nicely for later.

* * *

It was close to midnight when the hooded young man returned to Baker Street, his steps determined as he walked past Speedy's, past the closed door of 221 B and around the building. He paused before reaching the corner, turning his head every which way to be sure he wasn't followed before slipping in to the alleyway.

With nimble steps, he climbed up the fire escape, careful to make as little noise as possible until he reached the second floor window which led to Sherlock Holmes room.

He peered in. The curtain was still wide open, allowing him full view of the detective, who lay on his back. He frowned. The doctor should have known better than to have Sherlock on his back, he thought.

Taking his backpack off his shoulders, he rummaged through the contents until he found a strip of plastic and carefully slipped it in the space between the window and the pane to unlock the latch. Once done, he pulled the window open and stepped inside.

Pulling back the hood and taking off the gloves to reveal red fingernails, Irene Adler freed her dark curls from the confines of her disguise. She was in desperate need of a hairbrush but that would have to wait.

She stalked over to Sherlock's bed, and with as much gentleness as she could muster, turned him over to his side. Can't have the great detective choking on his own vomit, but by the looks of things, he seemed to be doing okay.

Certain now that he wouldn't be waking up any time soon, Irene explored the room. It was small, rather drab compared to what she was used to—definitely a masculine room. No fancy curtains or wallpapers, no unnecessary fixtures. It was all...efficient, just like Sherlock's brain.

But just like his brain, the room also had its eccentricities—like the periodic table of elements by the doorway and another framed periodic table above a photo of the Russian inventor and chemist Dmitri Mendeleev (boy, Sherlock seems really in to chemistry). Above his bed was a framed Japanese certificate (martial arts perhaps?) and on one side of the wall, a sword mounted on a plaque that indicated Sherlock's first place win at Camford Sports Society in 1996 (brainy and athletic? She supposed she should've guessed, seeing how he manhandled that American earlier).

She walked around the room some more. It was almost as though she were walking through the corridors of Sherlock's mind—every turn showing her a snippet of the detective she would never have otherwise known about.

She browsed through a lit cabinet. There were chemistry implements on the shelves—test tubes, beakers and whatnot—with a couple of oddities: a small bug collection (maybe used for his cases as reference? Or just a childhood hobby carried to adulthood?) and a small bust of what appeared to be another scientist (Irene wasn't sure who).

She moved to the bookcase on the left, looking pensively at the stylish six CD multi-changer hifi unit on the wall above it. She squinted at the CD titles. Classicals. Most of which she herself was fond of. Fancy that.

Irene smiled and continued towards the dresser. Above it was a picture of Edgar Allan Poe, whose hair, much to her amusement, had an uncanny resemblance to Sherlock's. Atop the dresser was an oval mirror and a few knickknacks, but the one thing that caught her eye was a small framed photograph of what appeared to be an six or seven-year-old Sherlock Holmes, standing alongside a morbidly obese teenager.

When Irene realized the teenager was Mycroft Holmes, she was not able to suppress a laugh.

She heard Sherlock groan. She froze and turned around to see the detective stir, mumbling one thing or another before going still again.

She released a trapped breath. It was then that she caught sight of herself in the oval mirror. Without her makeup, and with her hair loose down her shoulders, she looked nothing like the dominatrix who had bested Sherlock Holmes. She looked vulnerable...like the naive, starry-eyed girl who had first arrived in London with her head full of dreams and her heart full of love.

She hurried across the room to grab her backpack and rummaged through it until she found her makeup kit. She wasn't going to be able to do her hair or paint her face properly with so little tools and so little time, but she needed to put her mask back on.

She needed to feel like Irene Adler again.

After tying her hair in a simple bun and applying light rogue and lipstick, she set out to do what she came to do.

Reaching in to her backpack again, she took out the coat Sherlock had offered her that morning, fully intending to leave after returning it when something tumbled out and thudded on the floor.

Sherlock's phone. He must've left it on his coat pocket, she thought.

"Uh...M...Ms...Ad...ler...?"

Irene spun around and saw Sherlock, still on his side, looking blearily at her, his mouth hanging open, his body limp under the covers. In his present state, he probably won't remember much of her being here, or attribute her presence to drug-fuelled hallucinations, she thought.

"Hush, now." She hung the coat on the door's coat hook before taking the phone from the floor and placing it on the bedside table. "It's okay. I'm only returning your coat."

He was still staring at her, and she felt her heart skip. Sherlock Holmes was wearing the exact same lustful expression he did when she had caressed his jaw line with the riding crop. The drug's effects it seemed had not yet worn off.

Before she could stop herself, she sat on the bed, and traced a red-painted forefinger from his wounded cheekbone and down to his jaw line before stopping at the bottom of his soft lower lip. He moaned then, almost in pleasure, almost in anguish, his lips seeming to seek more of her caress but he remained uncoordinated, only managing to tilt his head lower before burying it in the pillows again.

Irene found herself entranced. The play of expressions on the detective's face was absolutely captivating—to see him so mentally incapacitated as to surrender himself to physical stimulation. She had seen that look thousands of times on her clients, but she had never derived as much pleasure as she did in seeing the great Sherlock Holmes in such a state.

It made her feel powerful.

It made her feel...naughty.

She eyed Sherlock's phone on the bedside table and traced her tongue across her teeth. She would give him something to remember her by, she thought. She'd make sure he would never be able to forget her.

She grabbed his phone from the bedside table and opened the sound recorder.

She moaned into it, then hit replay. Hmm. Too fake.

She deleted and tried again. It sounded like she was in agony.

Third try. It sounded like somebody punched her in the gut.

Irene's red lips twisted in frustration. She had never had much trouble letting out a moan before. Or maybe she just wanted it to be perfect. She needed to make it sound real somehow.

She touched the screen to begin her fourth try when she felt Sherlock move his right arm to encircle her waist.

She swallowed, her heart ramming against her chest when he pulled her closer to him. She'd been held like this before, so she shouldn't be reacting at all right? And especially not to a man's touch. Her skin shouldn't be tingling. Her throat shouldn't be dry. She most certainly shouldn't feel this warm. Damn it, why was her hoodie suddenly so stifling?

His other arm reached out to pull her further into his embrace. Then, she felt him bury his face to the side of her hip, groaning into her flesh.

She threw her head back and moaned.

 _Loud_.

"Sherlock?"

 _"Shit!"_ Irene quickly tore herself away from Sherlock's arms, grabbed her backpack and rolled down under the bed.

The door swung open and Dr. Watson's shoes (not the boots from earlier) came into view. She shifted further into the underside of the bed.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond. Irene hoped he had fallen back to sleep.

"Could've sworn I heard..." Dr. Watson let out a breath. After another still moment, Irene watched the doctor's feet move out of the room, the door closing behind him. She waited another couple of minutes before slowly crawling out from under the bed.

She crouched on the floor, leaning heavily against the bed frame. That was close. Too close, she thought, but quite thrilling as well.

 _"And in more ways than one,"_ she thought, throwing Sherlock's slumbering form a sidelong glance.

Her gaze dropped to the phone in her hand, a smile finding its way to her lips once more.

She hit the replay button and held the phone in her palms to muffle the sound.

The moan was perfect.

She rose to her feet and tinkered with the phone again, adding her number under the name 'The Woman' in Sherlock's contact list before setting her recorded moan as its personalized text alert noise.

After getting his number and adding it to her own phone's contact list, she slipped Sherlock's phone back into the pocket of his coat. Oh, if only she could see his face once he receives his first text message from her...

A commotion from behind her. Sherlock must be stirring again but when she turned, she was surprised to find him standing on wobbly legs, cheeks flushed and eyes on her before he fell awkwardly back on the bed, as though he had received a blow to the head.

Then, something clicked.

"Got it." Irene hurried back to the bed and pinned Sherlock down. "Shh, shh, no. Don't get up. I'll do the taking."

Still, Sherlock struggled, albeit weakly, so Irene moved her legs until she was straddling him, his head deep in the pillows, his darkened pupils on her as she ran her finger tip across his lips.

She shivered. This was a terrible, terrible idea. What in the world was she thinking? No, no, she just had to think of something else...bring them both somewhere, anywhere but this soft comfortable bed and this dimly lit room, with barely any distance between them.

She had to mentally take them both back to that field by the stream.

"So the car's about to backfire," she started with a shaky breath, her eyes closed as she imagined them both in that field, surrounded by a sea of trees, "and the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now you said he could be watching birds, but he wasn't was he? He was watching another kind of flying thing."

She gazed at Sherlock's face. He was listening. Gone was the carnal look, now replaced by what she could only describe as pure, attentive fascination.

"The car backfires, and the hiker turns to look," she continued, imagining the hiker falling down in almost the exact same way Sherlock had fallen on his back, "which was his big mistake. By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead. What he doesn't see is what killed him, because it's already being washed downstream.

"An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with...a boomerang." She paused for a second or two as it all began to sink in—the speed of which the detective had pieced together what happened with so little evidence to go on. "You got that from one look? Definitely the new sexy."

Irene smirked and gazed at Sherlock. They were on the bed again, her legs still on either side of his hips, her hands gripping his shoulders while his eyes remained trained on hers.

"I..." She saw his eyelids flutter and felt his breathing slow, "I..."

And just like that, he was once again asleep.

Sherlock Holmes—a man whose intelligence she had long since admired—after the day's remarkable adventure, was now in peaceful slumber, his face such a picture of serenity that Irene couldn't stop the surge heat rising in her chest.

"Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she whispered and lowered her face to his.

It wasn't until after the fact that she realized what she had done.

She had kissed him. At the corner of his mouth. Oh God! Why had she done that?

Quickly and carefully, she lifted herself away from Sherlock. She needed to get away and fast. She was getting much too carried away.

Turning him to his side one more time and pulling the covers up to his neck, she grabbed her backpack and slipped out the window, taking great pains to remain as quiet as possible as she descended down the fire escape.

Once she reached the alleyway, she put on her gloves and pulled up her hoodie until she was that young man again, walking through the late night streets of London; only this time, she still had her lipstick on.

She didn't bother to wipe it off. Not when her lips still thrummed with the feel of Sherlock's skin on them.

And when she finally got to the safety of a cab, she took out her phone and typed in her first message.

 _Till the next time, Mr. Holmes_

* * *

 **A/N: So a ton of things happened in this chapter. In fact, it is by far the longest one and I want to go and explain a few things.**

 **For Irene's disguise, I wanted to pay tribute to the original Arthur Conan Doyle story, where Irene actually dressed up as a man. I think the way they showed her in the episode was more of what Sherlock envisioned of her in his drugged state as opposed to how she was actually dressed upon breaking in to his apartment. It just wouldn't make sense that she would be running around London in Sherlock's coat, barefoot and in full makeup. (Note the way she was dressed when she turned up at his apartment again and slept on his bed) Her disguise is inspired from this Lara Pulver image: /sherlock_holmes_russia?z=photo-61619074_371055286%2Fwall-61619074_561**

 **Also, I could've written that Irene went there at night, but I just couldn't resist adding in the bit with Lestrade, so I had her essentially tail Sherlock so she'll know exactly where he lived or at least, exactly where his room was located (leave me be, I really wanted to write that puke scene LOL)**

 **In the part where Irene explored Sherlock's room, I did my best to make it as though Irene was exploring Sherlock's mind palace. This is part of how she got to know him even better.**

 **In regards to Sherlock's room, most of the elements there are canon, based on the Sherlockology website. I'm not sure about the bug collection though, but it looked like it.**

 **The drug that was used on Sherlock was mostly likely Ketamine. Aside from what we saw on the episode, it has the effect of lowering inhibitions, increasing sexual appetite (though some men, despite being horny from the drug, tend to have trouble getting it up) and increasing pain tolerance. It's been used by some dominatrices on their subs. Porn stars have also been known to use ketamine to increase pain tolerance during rough sex scenes (note that in this fanfic, we have the AU backstory of Irene once having starred in pornographic films, which later led to her BDSM lifestyle). This basically explains why I wrote Sherlock in that bed scene the way that I did :)**

 **Irene's several tries at moaning is inspired from the ASiB commentary, where it was remarked that Lara Pulver (Irene Adler) had to try several times to get the moan right because the others sounded like she was in pain or like she'd been punched.**

 **Irene hiding under the bed explains why Sherlock, in the episode, suddenly crawled down to look if anyone is still under the bed. In my head canon, he smelled Irene's perfume from down there.**

 **If you feel that the chronology of the scenes written here is different compared to the ASiB episode, just remember that Sherlock was drugged and could have muddled up his version of the events. I wrote it so it's more logical than canonically chronological :)**

 **What to expect in the next chapter: pretty much still a continuation of this one, will take place about an hour or so after Irene left Sherlock's flat. My husband and I talked at length about this next scenario and while I'm excited to write it, it might take a bit longer for me to do so this time (unlike my 2-3 day update). So please bear with me in the meantime. Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos as always :) They're a driving force!**


	12. Disciplined

Irene hurried up the bus, digging her hands deeper into the pockets of her gray hoodie as she looked for a vacant seat. The bus was unusually packed for a wee-hour route, and she had to go up the second deck to find an empty seat in the back.

She slipped into the seat and leaned her head heavily against the window. She was tired; so, so tired. A lot had happened in the past forty eight hours. She had barely slept, barely eaten, and now she still had a while to go before she could settle in to one of her hideaways.

The cab had been a diversion in case the Americans happened to follow her. She couldn't be too careful, especially since those men had surprised her twice already. But after fifteen minutes moving through the London in a bus full of people, she began to feel safe.

She pulled her hoodie down lower and closed her eyes. Her body screamed for sleep, but her mind kept flashing her images of the day's events—from her first glimpse of Sherlock Holmes, sitting in her parlour, to the sting of his cheek against her offending palm, then the feel of his skin against her lips.

But there was more. Much more to him than the physical. He'd been able to match wits with her; would have outsmarted her had she not been a step ahead. None of those articles in the papers, not even Dr. Watson's blog had done the man justice. He was a force to be reckoned with, and one who Irene thought never existed.

He was...very much like herself.

She remembered the way his body had felt against hers when she straddled him on his bed—all sharp angles like his cheekbones. Nothing feminine except its lithe form—the physique of a dancer almost. She wondered if he danced. Perhaps he did. She saw some waltz titles in his CD collection. She wondered what it would be like to dance with him.

Then there was the look in his eyes. Experience had taught her to figure out what her clients liked within the first few moments of meeting them. And what she saw in Sherlock's eyes when he first saw her in the parlour...when he gazed at her from his bed...what he wanted was...

Her.

She slapped herself inwardly. No, no, this wasn't good. She was getting too distracted. Focus, she needed to focus. Her mind was wandering into dangerous territory. She needed to get back on track.

God, she needed coffee so bad. And Kate made such good coffee...

Kate. She hoped the girl was okay. Not that she cared for Kate—or for anyone—in _that_ manner, but she was an innocent. Just a kindred soul trying to make her way in the world. Irene didn't mean for her to be caught up in all this mess. This was her problem, and hers alone.

The bus came to a halt. She didn't move. There were still two more stops before her destination. Still a bit of time to take a short nap, or lose herself in thought. Most likely the latter.

Someone slipped in beside her, and she scooted closer to the window to make room. The bus was officially full now, and she grimaced. She wasn't a fan of crowds. Or of public transportation. But it was a good way to disappear.

The engine hummed softly, and it took a few moments for Irene to realize that the bus wasn't moving. And neither were the passengers.

She heard a snap of fingers, and almost immediately, the passengers rose from their seats and began filing out of the bus.

Irene sat up and looked out the window. The passengers from the lower deck also appear to be disembarking as well. What in the world was going on?

She started to stand.

"I'd stay put if I were you."

Irene felt her entire body grow rigid, her hands, still in the pockets of her hoodie growing cold and clammy. She recognized that voice. On the phone. Except this time, it didn't come from her phone.

It was coming from beside her.

The other passenger who didn't disembark.

Slowly, she sank back to her seat.

"That's a good girl."

God, why didn't she think to bring a gun? Then again, that probably wouldn't do her any good. If he was capable of tracking her and commandeering an entire bus full of people, he was capable of anything.

Calm, calm, she needed to calm down. "Jim. I...wasn't expecting you."

"I was counting on that."

She didn't move. She barely breathed. She didn't even want to look at him.

Jim Moriarty—her employer and her tormentor—was sitting right beside her.

 _"Moriarty only shows himself for two reasons. One: if he trusts you implicitly, or two: if he's going to kill you."_

"Clever disguise," Moriarty remarked. The bus still didn't move. "Though if you're going to parade around as a man, you shouldn't be wearing red lipstick."

"Jim, I'm sorry I wasn't able to report to you on time," Irene started. Dammit, why was her voice breaking? "It's the Americans. They came back to my flat and attacked us and—"

"Do you still have the phone?" Moriarty cut in. Irene heard crinkling noises and when she dared a look, saw that he was reading the paper.

"Yes, of course." Still without looking at him, Irene took the phone from her backpack and showed him. "I was well on my way to getting Sherlock to help me with the code when those Americans came in."

"And after you left your flat, you didn't think to contact me at all?"

Irene closed her eyes. She couldn't tell him that after everything that had happened, she had actually forgotten.

"I'm so disappointed, Ms. Adler," Moriarty said after a time. From the corner of her eye, Irene saw him fold the newspaper and place it on his lap, his pale fingers drumming against the paper. "Do you know what I do to people who disappoint me?"

She swallowed. "You make them disappear."

"Very good, Ms. Adler." His voice was patronizing. Gentle almost. Yet at the same time, dripping with venom. She'd heard that tone a thousand times on the phone, but it was much more potent coming directly from his lips. "Tell you what. I'm in a good mood tonight, so I'm going to give you an extension."

"An extension?" Irene released a shaky breath. She should feel relieved. How come she wasn't? "For how long?"

"Oh, you'll find out." The seat shifted as Moriarty stood up. "In the meantime, you do whatever it takes to get Sherlock Holmes to crack that code. And next time, do take my deadlines seriously, or you will be seriously dead."

She heard rather than saw him leave. Her eyes were still glued to the floor, her scuffed sneakers turning in towards each other. She felt as though she had just dodged a bullet, and perhaps she had.

After somehow managing to steady her nerves, she stood up and started making her way off the still unmoving bus, her feet dragging across the aisle. She could lose the Americans easily, but with Moriarty, there was no point in running. No point in hiding. As long as she remained in London, he would be able to track her without difficulty.

Irene stepped off, and the bus drove away, leaving her alone in a dark corner of the city, with only the smell of decaying trash and the occasional screams and sirens for company.

She could leave, she thought. She could fly off to God knows where, but that would be tantamount to a death wish. Moriarty's reach was far and wide. She had to finish this one last job for him first.

One way or another, she had to get Sherlock Holmes to crack that code. She had to manipulate him, outsmart him, play on his evident attraction towards her and use all that against him.

Yet even as she schemed to take advantage of the detective's new found weakness, she found herself cracking the subtlest of smiles at the prospect of seeing him again.

She would meet him for dinner, she thought, as she retrieved her other phone and stared at his number. Yes, dinner would be very nice indeed.


End file.
